Free The Bridal Season by Connie Brockway Page A

that she was Lady Agatha. Particularly Sir Elliot.
And that meant making a grand show of herself. She looked down at her
once-lovely lavender gown. The lace was pulled out of shape and the under dress
was stained. She couldn’t wear it again. She sighed. No rest for the wicked.
    She glanced down at Fagin, sleeping blissfully. The fool mutt
hadn’t left the bed since he’d landed on it. Well, he’d best not get too used
to a life of luxury, she thought. Though no one deserved it better than he did.
    She wasn’t rightly sure just how she and old Fagin had teamed
up. Fate, she supposed. She’d come out of the back alley of a third-rate music
hall one night after finishing her act and found a pack of boys torturing a
little dog. They’d had it cornered. She hated above all things to see a
creature cornered like that.
    So she’d waded into their midst with fists flying and legs
kicking and, most importantly, screaming at the top of a pair of incredibly
gifted lungs. Afraid a copper would show, the mob had dispersed. The ragged
little dog had scooted in with her when she’d returned to the music hall. Fagin
had been with her ever since. Not a pet she owned, not something she was really
responsible for. He was just with her, was all.
    “All right, then,” she murmured. “Until we’re back in London,
you can consider yourself officially on holiday. But don’t you get too used to
finer things, m’lad, because they’re temporary.”
    She pushed herself to her feet and fetched the sewing basket
she’d found in one of the trunks. She rummaged through it until she found scissors,
needles, and thread. Then, with the eye of a connoisseur, she began sorting
through the dresses she’d unpacked, looking for the one that would take the
least amount of alteration to make it fit her smaller, riper figure.
    A gauzy white muslin, the skirt figured with black swiss dots
and the bodice piped with black velveteen caught her eye. She held it up,
pulling it to her at the waist and studying her reflection in the full-length
mirror. It was lovely. In the very first stare of fashion. Or would be once she
tweaked the bodice and hips. Sir Elliot wouldn’t spare a glance for his former fiancée
once he got an eyeful of her in this dress.
    Well, she admitted after a moment, of course he would spare a glance for Catherine Bunting. And words. And a dance or two. Because he was a
gentleman, and gentlemen always paid equal attention to all the ladies of their
acquaintance. Added to that, even if he wanted to, a gentleman would never monopolize
one particular lady.
    But, Letty grinned, spinning around and setting the skirts
swirling out, wouldn’t it be thrilling if he did?
Chapter 8
    Find out what people want to do,
    then tell them to do it. They’ll think
    you’re a genius.
     
    “GOOD MORNING, MISS BIGGLESWORTH.”
    Eglantyne, who’d been waiting in the breakfast room since nine
o’clock for their celebrated guest, or rather their employee, rose from her
seat. “Good morning, Lady Agatha...” Her voice trailed off.
    Lady Agatha, posed dramatically in the doorframe, smiled. “Is
something amiss?”
    “No, not at all,” Eglantyne hastened to say. “It’s just that
your dress ... It’s ... it’s so ... so exceptional.”
    The black piping decorating the bodice drew attention to Lady
Agatha’s happy abundance in that area. Almost as much attention as the
glove-close fit of the gown across the hips and nether regions. From there, the
black dotted skirts fell in a long cascade of material that brushed the floor.
    Lady Agatha’s vastly expressive face lit with pleasure. She
twirled, setting the light skirt swirling about her ankle in a froth of ruffles.
“It’s all the thing in town.”
    With a sickly smile, Eglantyne sank down in her chair. Dear
Lord, she hoped Lady Agatha wouldn’t suggest Angela’s wedding gown look like
that.
    Lady Agatha paused beside the buffet, inspecting the scant
leavings from the breakfast that had been put out hours before. She picked up a
piece